Killer Instinct
by Corpus Delicti
Summary: *Chapter Six is UP, Chapter One RE-WRITTEN* Dublin, 2012. Artemis knows well the feeling of walking the razor's edge. But when his notorious cartel is at the peak of its success, a new, rival cartel rises. And they want Fowl dead.
1. Chapter One: A Slight Hitch

**Title: **Killer Instinct

**Author: Skye Firebane**

**Rating:** PG-13, for now…

**Chapter Summary:** Artemis meets with the new threat with no prior information to negotiate, and instead ends up in a bloody mess. Literally.

**Comments: **Behold, the re-written version of Chapter One! As it says above, the rating _is_ PG-13. There is gore _and_ profane language and a whole bunch of nice stuff that little kiddies shouldn't see. Even though I'm a little kiddie and shouldn't even be writing this. But anyway; reviews here, flames go to hors_e@hotmail.com because then you'll clog up my Inbox and cause me a lot of grief.

**Disclaimer:** This disclaimer is here only to appease lawyers. I know that all of you lucid human beings know that I am _not _Eoin Colfer, and I do _not _own Artemis Fowl. I do, however, own what original characters there are, the plot points in this story, and my small fluffy dog, who, on the Internet, has been epitomised by an exceedingly large, terrible, rabid, vicious, Mary-Sue hating Alsatian named Cerberus.  

**Chapter One: A Slight Hitch**

The silver-grey barrel of the gun glinted in the dim, clouded moonlight and the distinct sound of the magazine being loaded into it echoed about the room. A trickle of sweat coursed down Artemis's face, trailing across his cheekbone before dropping onto the collar of his once white and crisply starched shirt. He rotated his neck uncomfortably, easing out the tension; it didn't hurt that his gag slipped slightly with each movement**.** The chair he had sat in for over seventy-two hours creaked as he pushed it harder against the wall, willing its rickety legs to snap beneath the pressure.

The cocking mechanism snapped as the gunman finally managed to load the gun in the dark. Artemis raised his head and recognised the gun as its silhouette was presented in the small square of moonlight on the floor. There was no mistaking it; he swore to himself. A Desert Eagle .50 could blow a fucking hole in a tank. 

A crack of light appeared on the tiled floor as the only door opened and closed with a small click. The smell of beef casserole, strangely enough, permeated Artemis's nostrils as his heartbeat began to race. The man with the gun raised the weapon cautiously and pointed it at the figure entering with the smell of meat.

"Just me," a distinctly American voice echoed from the door, high-pitched and nasal. The gunman lowered his weapon and Artemis could almost see him shake his head in disbelief. 

"I expected you an hour ago," the gunman said in an eloquent baritone voice, giving Artemis the impression that he was tall and heavyset. "Would you like people to see blood coming out of the drain?"

The other man cringed visibly – even in the dark, Artemis could see his reluctance – and set about clattering a bucket and mop, obviously not keen in upsetting the gunman any further. Disgruntled muttering was clearly audible over the racket he was making:

"Well, I'm sure that using the electric chair requires a little more brainpower than pulling the trigger." 

The remark obviously did not have the desired effect; his comments were met only with a derisive snort from the other side of the room. Artemis paid no attention to the men; his face was numb with realisation. The smell emanating from the outside was not beef casserole, but the smell of scorching human flesh. His stomach churned – he had never gotten used to the smell of burnt skin – but he remained silent. He followed the gunman's faint silhouette around the room with his eyes, and pressed the chair against the wall cautiously. It groaned beneath his weight. 

"What the hell was that?" said the American, dropping his mop in what was presumably fright. A ringing silence filled the room, and the seconds wore on as Artemis's captors strained their ears to once more hear the phantom noise. But there was nothing, only –

"Simpletons." Artemis's voice was muffled, but it did the trick. He pressed the chair against the wall harder and the resistance, ever-so-slowly, began to ease. He could feel the wood splintering beneath him. Both men made to rush forward, but the American held himself back. There wasn't much you could do with a bucket and a mop.

The gunman advanced on Artemis, holding the gun high above his head threateningly. Artemis glared defiantly at him, desperately absorbing facial features in his photographic memory. The gunman's arm swung down, loaded with momentum; the butt of the gun hit Artemis square in the temple. The world around him lurched forward and a painful spray of light invaded his vision. 

"Shut the fuck up," the gunman said, ominous, "and you won't get another one of them." He paused for a moment. And smiled.

"But you'll get this, regardless." 

Artemis's composure slipped just as the barrel of the gun was placed against his temple, the chrome finish icy cold against his pale skin. He ground his teeth; pure, primal instinct gripped him by the throat. In a split second, he shoved the chair against the wall – the wood gave a defeated creak as it splintered across the floor – and stepped out of the leg bonds he had broken. He swung the back of the chair into the gunman's hand, knocking gun to the floor with a clatter, and wheeled around viciously to strike the gunman in the jaw with the remnants of the chair legs. He was met with little resistance. He steadied himself as he looked with bemusement at the unconscious form at his feet. The sound of someone clearing their throat startled him; he turned. And froze.

"Not so smart now, are you, Mister Fowl?" The American was crouched, Western-style, holding the gun in trembling hands. Artemis breathed; regarded him with a raised eyebrow, before lashing out and kicking the gun from the other man's grip. He fumbled with the gun for a moment, and, with great difficulty, squeezed off a couple of rounds into his opponent's face. The crack of the bullets resonated on the tile walls, and he could feel the explosion of blood against his face, the liquid warm and silky. He smiled ever-so-slightly.

"Never settle for mindless bravado when there's a job to do."

"Fuckin' A'," grunted the gunman from the floor. His eyes were wide with terror, focused on the blood dripping off the muzzle of his own gun. The pair made eye contact – one set of eyes pleading, the other set apathetic and dangerous – and with a swift stomping motion, Artemis crushed the man's ribs and internal organs. 

How primal, he mused. Survival of the fittest.

It took him perhaps fifteen seconds to gain his poise once more. With several awkward movements, he managed to free himself from the remnants of the chair, and checked the gun's magazine to make sure it was still loaded. Assured of a near-full arsenal, he gripped the doorknob tentatively, and, gun first, exited out into the deserted hallway.

Directly opposite the steel room was a formidable steel door. The room on the other side, given the particularly heady stench of meat, was presumably where one of his victims had been moments earlier. He had already formulated a theory as to who the stench belonged to, but was not quite sure whether he wanted to affirm or disprove it. Giving his churning stomach a warning, he opened the door cautiously and pointed the gun about in the dark. The room was _definitely_ the source of the smell.

Artemis flicked on the light switch and shielded himself momentarily with the steel door, but there was not the slightest indication of anything afoot – save for the meaty smell, of course.

And it would be just his luck that his theory was, in fact, correct.

Situated at the far end of the room was an occupied electric chair. It seemed that traitors were held in more disgrace than rivals, given the condition of Artemis's informant at the very moment. 

He regarded the cadaver with disgust for a few moments. It was definitely Andreas – his trusty Spanish compadre – although he wouldn't have known if it weren't for the personal effects folded on a nearby bench. The chair seemed to have done a far more effective job at mutilating him than any hired goon could have; parts of his skin were scorched, having received more amps than the average death row prisoner would have. His eyes were milky white – cooked to an egg-like dryness by the electricity – and blood oozed like molasses out of his mouth and nose. Not that a hired goon hadn't been utilised: his fingers were hacked off above the knuckles, and the tendons in his legs snipped with what could have only been a pair of pinking shears. Pre-mortem, he thought with a wince.

Finally dismissing Andreas as a lost cause (after a great deal of inspection), Artemis sifted through the informant's possessions in the hope that some of his own had been saved, and found his laptop and phone. Which was certainly a relief to him; they hadn't cost him six thousand pounds for nothing. He clipped the phone to his belt and tucked the laptop underneath his arm. He flicked the light off, shaking his head, and crept down the hall.

Much to his surprise, the building was deserted. A figurative ghost town. It was certainly a change from nearly three days before; when he had been led through to the steel room, he had heard snickers, talking and sneers as he had passed through the labyrinthine corridors, bound and blindfolded. Now, the 'abandoned' hotel seemed almost forlorn. Artemis supposed that a week later, the rival cartel's headquarters would be halfway across the world.

The humidity – and mosquitoes – of the night air almost knocked Artemis back as he opened the reinforced double doors. The Pantanal, one of the lesser-known South American rainforests, was certainly a world apart from the comforts of Ireland.

Artemis removed his coat to inspect his physical state. For the first time in what seemed an age, he considered his appearance. Avoiding damage to his suit had been impossible, and his white shirt was stained with something dark that could only be blood. Whether it was his or someone else's, he wasn't quite sure. He didn't need daylight to smell the gunpowder and blood on his hands. 

And he definitely didn't need daylight to see that this entire affair had been one big cock-up.

The rival cartel was as close as something could get to James Bond. Shrouded in mystery, technology, and a great deal of rainforest, it was just about impenetrable. There had been a request for negotiations – Artemis only – some three weeks prior. There had been hope for partnership, friendship between the Fowl Cartel and these strangers. Until 'the top' of this new cartel judged Artemis expendable and not a threat. But they deemed him executable, anyway. 

There was a sharp trill at Artemis's belt. He reached for his phone tiredly and flipped open the screen. It was still a secure, coded number, though there were many more people who had it. Unsurprisingly, it was Butler, inquiring as to whether negotiations had ceased. 

"In a way, yes, the negotiations have ceased. Though they hardly started in the first place," Artemis said, scanning the horizon. There was a dirt road that snaked through the forest, but apart from that, no sign of civilisation whatsoever.

There was a thoughtful pause on the other end of the line. Artemis could almost see Butler, taking in his words with more than a spot of dread. 

"You shouldn't have gone, sir."

Artemis found his lips curling into a tight smile at his bodyguard's concern.

"I was ensured I had complete and total safety on this excursion," he said offhandedly, "Unfortunately, they were not completely convinced I even _was_ Artemis Fowl." 

"Oh, really?" Butler couldn't help but smile. Too many people had gone into the field expecting to deal with Artemis Senior. There wasn't much difference between the two men; Artemis Junior just had the majority of his honour and decency bred out of him.

"Yes, really. It just goes to show that I need to stress, _'The Second'_ more." Artemis paused, "But it's all in the past now. For the time being, they believe I am dead."

"And that's a good thing, sir?"

"It is a wonderful thing. I have a chance at escaping the country in one piece. Although I can't say the same for Mister Jobim."

"Andreas? He's…"

"Yes. Mister Jobim is departed. Traitors are not thought highly of here, obviously. Whilst I'm not exactly sure as to how they acquired an electric chair, they certainly know how to use one to great effect," he said, somewhat delicately. Andreas had been a friend of Butler's, from when he had worked in France. When met with silence, he continued on.

 "Fortunately, the two imbeciles who had been asked to _dispose_ of me were…" he paused, choosing his words, "disposed of."

Butler suppressed a chuckle. For someone who saw death every day, Artemis was particularly gentle with his language.

"Presumably you want a lift back to the Manor?" he asked, his voice light. May as well inject a bit of humour into a bad situation. Thankfully, Artemis warmed to the prospect. Even if it was much to his chagrin. 

"I'd _hate_ to have to trek across several continents in these clothes. Whatever would our Italian _gli amici_ think?" 

The bodyguard pulled a face that was somewhere between a wince and a smile at the mention of the mafia. He didn't doubt that whatever the state Artemis' clothes were in, the infamous Italian gangsters would put a bullet through his head. 

"I think they would think they'd like to do you in."

Artemis smiled half-heartedly, changing the topic. "I don't suppose you could bring the jeep in through the access track?" 

"Yep," Butler answered, groping about the motel coffee table for the keys. He stood, observing the state of the room. It was a makeshift command centre: computers, mobile phones and files were strewn around the room. "Would you like us to hightail out of town?"

"It seems like the best thing for us to do. I believe the motel bill has been catered for already. Your ETA?"

"Probably an hour and a half, give or take."

"Seems satisfactory," Artemis said, sighing and hanging up. He needed to get back to the Manor. The business with this rival cartel was getting way out of hand, and he needed it sorted out.

He wanted to make sure he _was_ going to have the last laugh.

***


	2. Chapter Two: Old Flames

**Title: **Killer Instinct

**Author: **Skye Firebane

**Rating:** Still PG-13. Don't be surprised if it is raised later on.

**Chapter Summary:** Enter Daniel Armada, a pyromaniac arsonist working for the rival cartel. 

Fowl Senior, Juliet and Angeline have an 'encounter' of sorts with one of Armada's bombs.

**Comments: **I'm very surprised with this chapter. Not much violence in it at all. There's not much gore, and no swearing.

Thanks to those who left reviews – I really appreciate them!

*******

**Chapter Two: Old Flames**

_Petrol. Check. Detonator. Check. Gunpowder. Check._

Daniel Armada recited the checklist in his head, a score of thoughtful lines furrowing his tanned brow. Blonde hair, too long and grubby, framed his gaunt face and gave him the look of a surfie. But he did not have time to have his hair cut; he did not have time for excessive grooming. Nor did he surf.

A pipe, hidden by the darkness, was routed across the hallway, perhaps two inches above his eye level. The pen-torch he carried in his hand illuminated it for a second, right before his forehead collided with the lead cylinder.

"God damn it," he growled, his voice dangerously low. Not that anyone would blame him. Stuck in the dark, wandering all but blindly, trying to find the electrical switchboard that was to be the location of the bomb he was to plant. _Trying_.

He rubbed his head and shook himself slightly, making sure he didn't have another outburst. Air-conditioning ducts and plumbing carried sound well. In fact, a past acquaintance of his had met his untimely end after accidentally swearing into a duct that carried the sound all the way to his target's office. He hadn't been told what had happened to his acquaintance, but he knew it had involved a pack of vicious Dobermans and an MP-5.

When he had been handed the assignment at the morning's General Meeting, he hadn't been aware of how large the Tuscan Villa was; it wasn't until he climbed the hill it sat upon he realised. Three stories high with beautiful architecture, filled to the brim with priceless antiques, centuries-old murals and stylish mosaics. The fountain, which was a centrepiece of sorts, rose gracefully out of the sandstone courtyard, the carefully crafted bronze glinting in the glare that came off the horizon. He'd almost hesitated before entering the labyrinthine basement. It would be a pity to destroy such masterpieces.

But the promise of fire and the smell of charcoaled bodies called too strongly. It was that way when you were a pyromaniac. Screw everything for the sake of fire. And that was just fine for Daniel.

He found himself stumbling into a large room, presumably the location of the electrical switchboard. He felt along the wall for a light switch, and smiled a tight, thin smile as he found one, turning it on and illuminating the entire room in golden light. At the opposite side of the room the switchboard stood out from a bare grey concrete wall.

His assignment was an easy one. He recalled the memo, he recalled grinning self-indulgently at the ease of his task. All he was required to do was construct a tilt switch to the biggest damn bomb he could build. He'd had worse missions to do in _kindergarten_, for Christ's sake.

Daniel worked in silence, imagining the flares of sparks and flames leaping through the corridors. Whilst the villa wasn't exactly the worst fire hazard you could come upon, all of the gas pipes would provide sufficient routes for the explosion to travel through. He screwed the cap onto the pipe bomb and connected it to his unfinished tilt switch. His eyes scanned the room for just the right place to put it. His eyes strayed upon the Propane tank and the scores of pipelines attached to it. 

Perfect.

He gaffer-taped the bomb to the cool metal tank and made sure that the wires leading to it weren't tangled. Knotted wires were notorious for leaving trace evidence. He looked about for an exposed wire that was part of the villa's power system, so that he could partially snip it and set off the safety switch. The only one he could locate was the wire connected to the light switch. He swore to himself, and then shrugged. He still had the pen torch.

As suddenly as the light had come on, he was plunged into darkness again. He fumbled for the torch and attached the tilt switch to the power board. As soon as anyone came down to fix the power, and so much as touched one of the switches or fuses… **_BOOM!_**

He smiled at that thought. There was a tantalising itch that almost held him back from leaving the property as he spied the speedboat waiting for him down at the beach 500 metres away. He dusted the gunpowder residue from his hands and slung his leather carry case over his shoulder, and ran, never turning back, not even once.

***

The slight breeze that swept across the harbour tousled Artemis Fowl Senior's greying dark hair as he looked out across the bay. Thoughtful, he watched yachts with colourful spinnakers cut through the azure waves. An ocean liner cut across the horizon quickly, its steel structure pushing foam powerfully in its wake, the portholes gleaming brightly as the sun's rays cast themselves out across the view.

"Never get me on one of them again," he remarked softly, his fingers instinctively trailing down to his prosthetic leg. Through modern technology it was almost as functional as an ordinary leg, though Artemis Senior often had cases of 'phantom limb'. And then it was as painful as hell.

Angeline Fowl smiled into her champagne glass, sipping quietly as she raised a delicate blonde eyebrow at her husband, recalling how happy he had been when he had purchased the _Fowl Star_. Now all she had to do was mention the word ship and he would cringe. She placed the glass on the mosaic table and walked delicately towards her husband. She leant on the balcony rail next to him and sighed.

"And that's why you find it impossible to force Arty into a legitimate occupation?" she asked, a slight bite in her tone. Artemis Senior raised his eyebrows at her and shook his head.

"He'll find out soon enough that doing what he does can knock the stuffing out of you," he gestured with his chin towards his prosthetic leg. The pale cream French doors opened with a small click, and both Angeline and Artemis Senior turned to face the disgruntled visage of Juliet.

"I swear, you are _going_ to sell this house," she snapped, flustered, her blonde hair falling out of a hasty plait, "This is the third time the power has shorted out in two days. Either you have rats chewing the wires, or, with all due respect, this house is a total wreck."

She slumped against the doorframe, wiping her hands on the apron that was tied tightly around her waist. It was evident that she had been cooking only some minutes ago, the soy sauce and fish stock stains fresh on the white linen.

"You know, it might be rats. Although, I did get Arty to take a look at it…" Angeline said gently. She was always wary of stepping in to mediate complaints, especially Juliet's, seeing as though the young woman had a fiery temper.

"I didn't think it was important at first, you know? It was only for a few seconds, but now it lasted about five minutes! The gluten in the noodles has expanded and now they're all gluggy –,"

"What's that?" Artemis Senior interrupted, straightening his back and standing tall. His grey eyes were suddenly alert; as if he had seen something he could fight.

"What's what?" asked Angeline, rolling her eyes impatiently. She never doubted her husband's lucidity for a second, although sometimes he made a mountain out of a molehill.

He opened his mouth to say something, but from the depths of the three-story villa, came a sonorous roar, a rumble that seemed to echo into eternity. Flames leapt through the stairwell inside the villa, and Juliet leapt forwards from the French doors as the glass shattered from sheer heat, propelling herself to the edge of the balcony rail. The heat ate away hungrily at the wood, leaving a charred, blackened mess behind that resembled crocodile skin.

"Jesus Christ," Juliet yelled shrilly, covering her eyes with her hands as the skin on her palms began to blister. The balcony bent at an angle as the metal beams melted and the wood splintered with a deafening crack, slipping further as the fire raged away. With a resigned groan, the beams gave way and fell to the vineyard below; a moment before the house seemed to give in and was engulfed by flames. 

White hot metal set fire to the vineyards below, and the glowing embers of the balcony were carried on the sea breeze, whirling upwards into the sun. Angeline Fowl pulled herself up and dusted her clothes; relieved at least there was no damage to herself. The impressive stone structure began to collapse as she turned around, all supports melted or charred beyond recognition. She knew the insurance would pay for the house – and all of the belongings, but there were things in there that just couldn't be replaced. There was a hiss of steam from the courtyard as the water from the fountain evaporated in a split second.

There was a groan from behind. She wheeled about, and in her haste, placed the heel of her shoe sharply in the middle of Artemis Senior's fingers. The groan became more of a yelp, until she stepped off his hand. In one fluid movement, she picked up her husband. His already-scarred arms were cut, slashed even, debris embedded in the flesh. The wounds were bleeding profusely; already his polo shirt was soaked in the crimson fluid.

Remnants of Ming vases, paintings and bronze statues were strewn through the neat rows of vines. Artemis pulled the half-melted leg of a 15th Century bronze horse sculpture from a tangle of creepers. He heaved a sigh. 

"Jesus Christ," came a stunned voice behind them. Juliet. She'd become rather fond of that phrase of late, mused Angeline. Perhaps she'd converted.

Her apron was torn, bloodied as well, but only from an array of scratches across her neck. Her white blouse was smeared with dirt, and her expression was one of a person who had come across sixty dead, decomposing bodies. Disgust, fear and utter nausea.

"A bomb?" she suggested, and then seemed to affirm her own question by starting an apology. "Madam Fowl, Mister Fowl, I'm so sorry – I mean…" She stammered on pointlessly, more shocked than ashamed. Her arms flailed about, and then she stopped, staring in horror at her employer's arm. Immediately she removed her apron and tore it into strips, winding them tight against Artemis's arm. Perhaps a little too tight. His hand began to turn red, but that was the least of his problems. Tokens of a lifetime of work were in that house. Of course, there was always more back at the mansion, but who was to say that that hadn't been bombed, too?

He snorted in disgust, and then seemed to gain some of his trademark wry humour. He dusted himself off and began to walk towards town. No doubt the police would want a statement, or something. Not that they hadn't already seen the explosion. Already sirens were wailing in the distance. He turned to his wife.

"Déjà vu, right?" he said dryly, smirking ever so slightly.

***


	3. Chapter Three: The Butler Did It

**Title: Killer Instinct**

**Author: Skye Firebane**

**Rating: Still PG-13.**

**Chapter Summary: Artemis Junior interrogates a mafia hit man and uncharacteristically loses his cool – the reason a mystery at the moment. Meanwhile, Caitlin Woodgrove, sociopath, barmaid and ex-second-rate assassin is hired by a tutor…?**

**Comments: The following chapter is a pathetic attempt at dry humour. The key words being 'pathetic' and 'attempt', mind you. Now, warnings… a go at a slightly different writing style, a few expletives, mild violence (only one scene of 'real' gore)… That's about it. Thankyou for all those who reviewed, and to animefanatic07: Yes, it is gory, but I didn't *really* see fit to classify it as R – the violence will probably be on a less grand scale. And Artemis II, in the second chapter, is in South America. Many of these chapters are written on simultaneous timelines; however, most are not.**

Anyway, thanks again to the reviewers; however some more steroids for the ego would be appreciated greatly. Bon appetit.

**Chapter Three: The ****Butler**** Did It**

The room was bright.

Of course, one would expect it to be that way seeing as though it was lit with 40 high voltage, high wattage halogen globes. Have you ever seen a police movie in which the 'bad cop' shines a bright light into a perpetrator's eyes? Well, Artemis Fowl the Second had seen several. And, with his usual gusto, made a much larger thing out of it. Literally.

The room was named the 'Interrogation Room', although the henchmen, goons and various other employees of the Fowl Cartel chose to aptly refer to it as the 'Torture Hole'. It was in this particular room that Artemis Fowl the Second, to his distaste, found himself engaging in discussion with a less-than-eager Mafia hit man – who refused to do as much as tell anyone his name. The nerve.

The lenses of Artemis's heavy-duty, polarized, quartz headgear – specifically designed for usage in the Interrogation Room – glinted constantly in the near-blinding light. Even behind them he had to squint. However, the hit man before him was far less comfortable than his interrogator, having no eye protection whatsoever. Perhaps being at the mercy at one of the world's most dangerous young men was adding to his discomfort as well.

Artemis seated himself on one side of the table that was bolted into the middle of the floor. The hit man was seated opposite him, titanium cuffs on both his wrists and ankles, on a far less cushy chair. Technically, it was more a pile of cinderblocks grouted together, but Artemis was not about to pay attention to the comfort of one of his least important 'visitors'.

"My, my," he beamed brightly, observing the vast array of weapons spread out on the table in front of him. "What an arsenal!"

A flicker of doubt crossed the hit man's face. He wasn't quite sure of what to make of Fowl; the way he talked was a way that could put most people at ease. The only thing that was in the way of this hit man's ease was Artemis's formidable reputation, and that was a hard thing to get past. And then there were the _rumours_ of what Fowl had done, and they were perhaps scarier.

"Yeah," the hit man grunted in agreement. Were his hands free, he would have scratched his head. His mother had always said he was a little docile. Perhaps 'thick' may have done him more justice.

"Oh. What's this?" Artemis feigned curiosity as he picked up the latest technology in firearms, the Greylands Customiser S-60. It was three weapons in one: a pistol, which could be pulled out to make a high-powered rifle, which in turn could be modified to create a machine gun. Of course, it was futile for Artemis to try and fake his curiosity. After all, he _had_ practically created the Customiser, and was widely known for it.

"It's a Greylands Customiser," the reply was unsure. The hit man's broad face was furrowed with lines of confusion. This _was_ the infamous Artemis Fowl, not some benign hermit, wasn't it…?

"Ah." This was the last word he heard before there was a volley of shots, and the sound of breaking glass. The hit man fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, cowering in fear. The light was dimmer than before, still bright, but the change was welcome.

"I was getting rather sick of those lights," Artemis snapped, as if it were the hit man's fault. "I suppose _you're_ getting sick of them, too?"

The hit man nodded, not moving from his position on the floor.

"Well, you can either choose to cope with them, or live in darkness for the rest of your life. Which probably won't be very long, mind."

The prospect of being made blind wasn't one the hit man really wanted to think about. If Fowl wanted to play games all day long, _he_ may as well be the one to start the interrogation.

"So, what do you want to know?" his mouth was dry, his voice slurred.

Artemis beamed another one of his _faux_ smiles. "So, you want to co-operate, now?" He thought for a moment, before producing a palmtop computer and turning it on.

"Number one: Who is your benefactor?" he read, the stylus in his other hand looping across the screen as he penned it down into the computer.

"Benefactor? Gee, I dunno, really."

Artemis laughed coldly. "And I suppose that's what I get for coming across low-ranking nobodies. Take a guess, and get the right answer. This is not a question you can afford to get wrong."

The hit man blinked slowly, making himself look like a cow more than a human. "Diamantex. The diamond mining company. That is all I know, honestly."

The answer seemed sufficient for Artemis. The stylus skated across the screen once more.

"Number two: Where is your biggest concentration?"

"You know that." The hit man had gathered enough nerve to talk back, if only slightly.

"So, it hasn't changed? Well, I suppose, for me, that's a welcome surprise." It wasn't really a surprise. Just a disappointment, really. Artemis had really only gained one piece of information worth keeping, and it was clear that the assassin was stupid; he was probably oblivious to most of the goings on in his own organization.

"That's it?" Now the hit man's voice was incredulous. He had been expecting more, just like he'd been asked when the Russians caught him. He failed to see the flash of annoyance pass across his interrogator's face, replaced by a cold, sadistic smirk.

"No," replied Artemis, "That's not it."

There was a silence as he let his last words sink in. It was indeed the case that the hit man was slow, as the last expression on his face was one of bewilderment. That is, before Artemis, with speed that one would not have really attributed to him, extended the Greylands Customiser into a machine gun, and emptied a full clip into the hit man's face. Flesh, bones and blood alike were churned up in a crimson foam, splattering the walls, ceiling and floor. The hot slurry splashed up at Artemis's face, and then there was the familiar _click, click, click_ of a gun without ammunition. Only then did he stop.

Behind a small one-way mirror, Butler cringed. Something must have made Master Artemis incredibly mad.

***

"Oi, short-arse, give me another!"

The cuts on her knuckles were beginning to heal. The stitches had been taken out and the blood congealed into rough scabs. The cuts had been deep, but regrettably they had not severed tendons or even cracked bone, which was a shame really. That's what you get for using a box cutter as opposed to a proper knife when you're trying to cut your own fingers off for fun.

Caitlin Woodgrove was a sociopath. It didn't take a genius to figure it out. She was one of those socially incompetent, sadistic, hotheaded people who barely ever felt guilt. She was rather proud of it, too. Much to her disappointment she was stuck serving abusive drunks in a dingy pub in the back streets of Ireland, which is hardly the right place for someone who could kill her own mother without batting an eyelid or shedding a tear.

"Can I help you?" she tried being courteous, though she knew it wouldn't work. The man was drunk off his feet, which was one of the reasons he wasn't leaving. It was also the reason he was displaying the most common symptom of a hardened alcoholic: obnoxiousness. He smiled a stupid, wobbly grin and pushed his glass towards her, a little too hard. It fell off the counter and seemed to give him some pleasure to see the dregs of his Heineken splash over Caitlin's shoes. His sonorous guffaws seemed to encourage the other inhabitants of the pub, and soon the room was echoing with peals of laughter.

Caitlin frowned. The beer was soaking into her socks, and it was only midday. She still had three quarters of a shift left, and _God _knows how long it takes beer to get washed out…

She felt her anger boil over uncontrollably. Any normal person would have smiled politely, picked up the cup and refilled it. But Caitlin didn't feel like smiling politely. She felt like kicking the shit out of the tanked up loser who had made her day _just one pint worse._

However, something made her pause. Or rather, a court order made her pause. 

Her psychologist had given her exercises to cope with rage, and by law, she had to remember them. Reluctantly, she let his calm voice float about her head: _Breathe in, breathe out. Think of something happy. Of puppies in green meadows…_

The psychologist hadn't thought of the fact that Caitlin just so happened to hate puppies with a vengeance. It stemmed back to the Cocker Spaniel who lived around the block and urinated on everything. But that is another story, and we do not need to read an anecdote about a dog with bladder problems.

In an instant she leapt across the bar counter and placed her foot against the drunk's throat, letting gravity do its duty. He fell to the floor, spluttering against her weight, which just happened to be resting its entirety on his trachea. And so the drunk began to do what people do best in this situation: turn blue at an alarming rate.

Bar stools scraped against linoleum as men in various stages of drunkenness tried to pull Caitlin off the man, who was now a rather flattering shade of magenta. One of the locals, a mountain of a man simply known as 'Tank' succeeded with lifting her off the ground a full two feet, until she punched him hard on the nose and was rewarded with a sickly crack. He dropped her rather promptly.

Dashing past the huddled mass of men without so much as removing her apron, she felt a surge of relief she associated with the suffering of others. A sick, twisted smile spread across her features as her heavy boots left bloodied tracks across the floor. The heavy door groaned as she struggled to keep it open long enough for her to leave.

No sooner had she made it out onto the main street than yet another man intercepted her, although this one was considerably more sober than the last one. He was tall, with a wizened face the colour of almond, a broad nose and a barrel chest that made him look like a Clydesdale horse, albeit a scary one. Caitlin shivered, though she attributed it to the bitingly cold weather rather than fear. She didn't like to think that she was starting to become a coward.

"Miss Woodgrove. So glad you have run into me, so glad," the man smiled and shook her hand, somehow ushering her into a nearby alley. "Elias Tabbard."

Caitlin stared blankly at him. His name didn't register with her memory, and neither did his face. And that thought was as comforting as a bed of nails, seeing as though he evidently knew hers.

"What do you want?" she asked, squirming to get her arm free from his vicelike grip.

"I'd like to offer you a job."

Caitlin blinked, stunned. "Odd way to ask me," she spoke in clipped tones that barely conveyed the extent of her annoyance. He dropped her arm and it fell limply to her side as she recognised the shape of an ankle holster strapped just above his Italian loafers.

She attempted to smile at Elias, but she knew she had failed dismally. Resembling somewhat a rabid Doberman baring its teeth, she took the envelope he offered to her.

"You know about Artemis Fowl the Second?" His voice was hoarse, the sound one would associate with a car with bad transmission. Caitlin scowled at him.

"Just because I've been in therapy for four months doesn't mean I've been living in a cave for twenty years. Fowl's only the smartest, most notorious man in Europe. Nope, never heard of him," her voice dripped with sarcasm, a clear sign that she was irritated. She slid a chewed nail beneath the seal of the envelope and produced a photo from it.

"Fowl's bodyguard. Fortress of a man, you ask anyone who's tried to kill Fowl. Not that there are any of them left," he grinned as if it was some big joke.

Realisation struck Caitlin as the words sunk in. Elias had blocked the entrance of the alleyway; he meant business. Caitlin grimaced as conflict raged within her. She wanted to return to her previous occupation, however, that occupation just so happened to be illegal. And she hadn't been _that_ successful, either. If she had, she wouldn't have been caught at it in the first place. 

"Why are you wanting me to kill him, then? Why not corner Fowl some place and slit his throat?" Caitlin's tone was incredulous; after weighing the possibilities she had concluded that it was not worth facing life in the slammer only to hit a brick wall of a man. "Furthermore, why me?"

Elias smirked patronisingly, as if Caitlin was a schoolgirl who had trouble understanding a question. "He's not invincible, Miss Woodgrove. Not even he can hold his own against a Teflon-coated round to the head." He hesitated, "And once he's down, well, Fowl will be another gang warfare statistic. And you? You just happen to be convenient – and cheap."

Caitlin leant against the wet brick wall and sighed, hoping that that was all Elias had to say. Of course, it wasn't.

"You can shoot, and you just happened to have beaten up two drunks in a bar. Aggravated Assault, perhaps… that is, if I testify to it."

Caitlin felt the colour and heat rise to her face. It explained Elias's holier-than-thou attitude. Then again, some people are just born that way.

A sly smile crept across Elias's weathered features as Caitlin's face collapsed into a grimace.

"You have any other skills?" he asked nonchalantly, as a couple walked past the alley, casting curious glances at Caitlin and Elias.

"I shoot. Just like you said, and that's it," she paused for a second, growing tired of being tolerant. "I don't hack, don't write romance novels under a pen name, and definitely don't perform sexual favours on middle-aged bigwigs." For a moment she contemplated adding 'such as yourself' to the end of the sentence, but she refrained. After all, she wasn't the only person with a short fuse.

Much to her surprise, he grinned. "A no-nonsense girl. Perfect thing for this job, y'know? No wonder you got away with murder -,"

"-Manslaughter," Caitlin corrected automatically. That was the defence her lawyer had used. That, and mental instability. One lie and one truth.

His expression got serious, and to Caitlin's dismay, he reached out to trace the twisted, red scar that ran from her right ear, down her jaw line to stop at her chin. She shuddered, repulsed, and bit her lip to keep her cool – so hard that she began to bleed, the warm liquid like a strange metallic endorphin.

"However, I'd like to know how your lawyer explained away this," he withdrew his hand and shoved it deep into his pocket.

"Horse riding accident," shrugged Caitlin. Elias turned and pulled a hood over his head as the rain really began to fall, casting an icy haze across the city. Caitlin sighed, full of relief as she watched him walk to the curb.

"You've never ridden a horse in your life," he said, and Caitlin could hear the smirk in his voice. As she placed her freezing, stiff hand in her jeans pocket, her fingers brushed against cardboard. A business card. In one corner, the neat black font announced that the card belonged to Elias V. Tabbard, Tutor. On the other side, a somewhat cryptic jumble of numbers and letters were written back-to-front: _1750 61395980231 int revc diod._

Caitlin scowled. She hated codes. 

***

Argh. 

*cough* A sidenote – or, rather, a blatantly blunt hint: Note that the genre of this fic does *not* include romance. 


	4. Chapter Four: Of Deals and Presumed Deat...

**Title: **Killer Instinct

**Author: **Skye Firebane

**Rating:** Still PG-13. *sigh* Probably will be forever.

**Chapter Summary:** A deal is done, an explanation is made, and nausea is overcome.

**Comments: **Due to the great (hah!) success of the last chapter, I have decided to soldier on and post the next one. Reviews would be most appreciated. Alas, this is not my _best chapter, nor is it my __favourite chapter. But I urge you to read it._

**REVISED COMMENTS: There is what may _seem like an out of character moment for Artemis. animefanatic07 was ever-observant and pointed it out to me, it is much appreciated however retching isn't always vomiting. In __The Arctic Incident he cried for a minute, down on his knees. To have – or seemingly to have family and friends ripped out of your hands when you're too busy to be with them is a tragedy. Just thought I'd point that out, but I'm grateful you brought that to my knowledge._**

**Chapter Four: Of Deals and (Presumed) Deaths.**

The final strains of Mozart's Sonata in F Major filtered through the heavy walnut doors of the Manor's drawing room. Ivan Gregorieva faltered as he reached toward the brass handle. He looked upward at Butler's broad face, what little confidence he had in him dwindling away. He had been called to an emergency meeting with Fowl the Second, his first ever meeting with the man. This was not good news.

The hinges creaked as he pushed the door open, and he walked quietly along the marble flooring, marvelling at the expensive décor. An open fire was crackling away in a generous black marble fireplace. Tapestries – family heirlooms, he supposed – depicting medieval hunts and banquets were hung on the crimson walls. The slight draft from the open French doors gently rocked the chandeliers, their gold light glancing off every well-polished object in the large room.

"Afternoon, Mister Gregorieva," came a cool, smooth voice from the corner. Presumably the tall figure seated at the black grand piano was Fowl. He hesitated.

"I saw your reflection in the finish of the piano," the figure explained without turning around or ceasing his performance. Gregorieva was quiet as Fowl finished off the volley of staccato cords. He turned around and watched Ivan with his piercing eyes before standing up and walking several paces to meet the smaller man.

"I was not aware you played piano, Mister Fowl," Gregorieva smiled as he shook his client's hand vigorously, clinging onto his briefcase with his other clammy hand.

"There are many things you are not aware of, Mister Gregorieva. However, I hope you appreciated my recital of sorts. I am not an accomplished player."

If Gregorieva hadn't been about to wet himself with anxiety, he would have laughed. _Not accomplished? Fowl's 'recital of sorts' would have made the greats turn and blush._

"Absolutely," he nodded almost immediately, not sure of when to stop.

"Do you play piano, Mister Gregorieva?" Fowl asked, encouraging his stockbroker into small talk, probably doing more harm to the other man's courage than good.

"Used to, sir, used to. However my talents were not as… great as yours, and I'm afraid I gave it up. Although I seem to remember preferring Mussogorsky, Tchaikovsky, Borodin."

"You have a strange affinity for Russian musicians. Myself, I never… took to them," Fowl replied, his mind not focused on the conversation. Repulsive images of a severed leg, burns and gashes were playing through his mind. He snapped back to reality. Time to get down to business.

"Ivan – may I call you that? Have a seat, please." He sat on the edge of the chaise longue. 

Gregorieva nodded mutely, his briefcase slipping out of his hand, the handle moist with sweat. His heart was beating so hard it felt as if it were about to jump out of his mouth and attack something. He collapsed in a lounge chair, completely forgetting his calm pretence. Sweat dribbled down his upper lip.

"Are you opposed to a spot of insider trading?" Fowl asked, impossibly nonchalant.

"N-no, not at all, Mister Fowl." His voice was now barely above a whisper, teeth chattering.

"Then take my advice. Do not ask questions. Convince every single one of your clients to sell their Diamantex shares, whilst the prices are soaring. Come this new fiscal year, their shares will be rock bottom."

Gregorieva gaped at his client. "But –,"

"Do you recall telling me excitedly that every other diamond mining company was folding, or not lasting an audit?" he asked, his tone cold, as if he disapproved of such emotions in a conversation. As an afterthought, he added, "No one likes to be associated with the mafia, Ivan."

"You mean…?" he trailed off, paling. He himself had several thousand. His shares in Diamantex were worth hundreds of thousands already – next financial year they'd be worth millions!

"Of course, Ivan, do not feel obligated to take my advice. However, I would like to sell all one hundred thousand Diamantex shares in my name. Shall I see you in your office on Monday to close the deal?" Fowl picked some non-existent grit from beneath his fingernails, and an uncomfortable silence descended on the pair. Gregorieva was past nervousness now, well and truly immersed in terror, though the reason was a mystery to him. His head was spinning with convoluted thoughts of the mafia and audits. He nodded slowly.

"How does midday sound?" he ventured, and Fowl beamed a bright smile that seemed a little too forced.

"Perfect. Butler shall see you out, as I have some pressing business to attend to."

Gregorieva nodded and picked up his briefcase, his composure gathering itself back up again. By the time he reached the door he was feeling rather optimistic. And once he was well and truly out of the Manor, he was thinking to himself, _that wasn't too bad, after all, was it? _

Artemis stood and watched the retreating back of the stockbroker. And then he smiled, a cold, grim smile filled with satisfaction and irritation at the same time. Gregorieva – though he _was an excellent broker – was a born spectator when it came to mind games. Artemis' banter, his cold stare, his unnerving calm – it was all designed to terrify and confuse the victim. Not to mention squander away the dreary Sunday afternoon torpor Artemis subjected himself to as a stress-reliever._

Hearing the heavy footsteps of his bodyguard return to the drawing room door, he picked up several leather-bound classics and filed them away in the small bookcase by the piano. The door opened with a soft click, and Butler's stern visage peeped through the gap.

"Artemis – Mister Fowl," he corrected himself. Whilst calling his charge by his first name was all very well and good after business hours, he had to stick to formalities whilst working. "May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly Butler. Walk with me to my office, and we shall have a chat along the way."

Artemis turned and strode across the room to meet his bodyguard, and then set off down the expansive corridor at a brisk pace. Butler followed him silently like a phantom presence. Artemis observed him with his peripheral vision before sighing exasperatedly. "Are you, or are you not going to ask me a question?" He stopped at the fork of two of the corridors, and pressed lightly on one of the sandstones in the wall. There was a click and the sound of rusted gears grating against each other as a small hole, barely large enough for Butler to crawl through, opened several metres down the hallway. That was the beauty of having a Manor several hundred years old. Security came in the form of hidden passages and booby-traps. Artemis had only discovered the doorway five years earlier, when the rising damp became particularly bad in the northwest wing. It conveniently opened into a cold maze of tunnels, which would become the command centre of his cartel in later years.

The dark labyrinth of corridors was alive with chatter, from pointless small talk to important business deals. Muscled-up thugs almost as large as Butler dominated the halls, pushing whoever they saw fit to push over.

Artemis began his brisk walk again as he descended deeper into the darkness. Gaining more speed as he half-jogged down a metal walkway, knocking over more than one employee, Butler finally decided to talk. "With all due respect, what the hell was that about?" he asked as he watched one particularly large projectile tumble in front of his charge.

"Hmm?" asked Artemis absent-mindedly. "Momentum."

Butler opened his mouth to utter a confused 'Huh?' before he realised that Artemis had been referring to the thug, now lying crumpled at the bottom of the walkway.

"No," he snapped, adding a little more authority to his voice than usual, "The… interrogation."

An amused sort of smirk played upon Artemis' features. "You want to know why I even went to bother interrogating a nameless, low-ranking henchman of the Mob."

The bodyguard nodded.

"Did you not notice some certain anomalies about the man?" there was more amusement injected into his charge's voice. Butler frowned, then shook his head.

"Since when did a) henchmen wear silk suits, b) have a personal weapons store worth over 4000 pounds, c) wear genuine gold Rolexes stamped with their personal initials, and d) know about the internal affairs of their organisation?" he asked patronisingly, his smirk both wider and more smug than before.

"What do you mean?" Butler asked, though he was catching on, albeit a little slowly.

"Succinctly put, that henchman was not a henchman. To be more precise and to the point, that was Attilio Innocenzo, a high-ranking member – perhaps not unlike a CEO of a company. You must give me some credit, my friend. I would not take it upon myself to kill a _nobody."_

He stopped at a reinforced steel door and pressed the side of his hand against a scanner. Like fingerprints, the side of your hand was unique. Any infiltrator thinking that making latex doubles of his fingerprints and using them on the scanner would work would regret his hunch once a silent alarm was activated and heavily armed guards would apprehend the intruder.

The doors whirred and opened out into a lavishly furnished room. Artemis turned to his bodyguard and said, "Does that answer your question?"

Butler nodded and smiled slightly, turning to leave. Artemis waited until his friend had left, and when the doors had closed behind him, he turned to the en suite. Pulling the message that had been delivered to him earlier that morning out of his pocket; he leaned over the marble sink and shuddered with nausea. He read once more the solid black printing on the creased paper, and felt his stomach shudder and heave. 

Artemis retched once, twice, and when he felt he was over the nauseating shock that he had been holding in since 10 in the morning, he tossed the paper nonchalantly in the bin. No need to get worried, at least, until 5 in the evening. If his father didn't call, he'd fly to Tuscany and help comb through the wreckage of their villa, looking for their corpses.

***


	5. Chapter Five: Polo and Poverty

**Title: Killer Instinct**

**Author: Skye Firebane**

**Rating: PG-13.**

**Chapter Summary: A polo match between Elias Tabbard's team and the South Bray Bucks turns bad when an unexpected visitor arrives, killing a Bucks player. Elias learns that the killing was ordered by his own cartel.**

A little later, Caitlin wakes from an alcohol-induced slumber and closes the deal between her and Elias.

**Comments: Not happy with chapter at all. It's OK in the first part, and from there on it goes downhill. Sorry. For those not familiar with the game of polo, a 'chukka' is a period of time into which the game is divided into. Thanks to the reviewers, specifically Blue Yeti, who trawled through my drivel and thought it was good.**

**Chapter Five: Polo and Poverty**

The midday sun bore down on the backs of the polo players, the airborne dirt flung up by the hooves of the polo ponies catching the sunlight as it whirled about in the gentle breeze. Elias removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair, before dismounting and leading his pony, Bailey, to a cluster of dejected-looking team-mates.

He tapped his polo stick against his knee guards and grimaced as the rest of the team turned towards him. He breathed a sigh. As team captain it was his duty to boost the egos of the team, especially his prospective clients.

"OK, so it wasn't the greatest chukka in the world," he shrugged, "the South Bray Bucks have been top of the ladder since the start of the season. They're using their own ball and that's smaller than the one we use." It wasn't a lie. The Bucks were notoriously competitive and often went to great lengths to prevent the other team from winning. And, yes, Elias' team used a larger ball. To be exact, it had been a soccer ball – the club was seriously over budget – compared to the usual 8 centimetre diameter regulation ball, it was a big difference.

The referee blew his whistle and Elias' team remounted. Elias buckled his helmet and swung his leg over Bailey's back and into the stirrup. He spurred the horse into the middle of the field, and took off at an uncomfortable gallop as the small white ball was passed from the centre. He dodged a rather burly-looking Bucks player's polo stick, before hurtling into the knot of riders. There was a glimpse of white amongst the chestnut and bay legs, and he swung blindly with his stick. It connected with the ball with a slight thud and he pushed it up the field, leaning low in the saddle to lessen wind resistance. Bailey's body heaved beneath the saddle as the goals loomed before them. Elias grinned; there was absolutely no defence up the Bucks end. It would be his team's first goal in the entire game. Not exactly the most comforting thought, but at least it beat going down to the Bucks 0-37.

All of a sudden, Bailey reared up in fright, the white of his eyes showing and his nostrils flaring wildly. Elias' boots slipped out of the stirrups and he hung on to Bailey's neck tightly, cursing the horse for being particularly high-spirited. That was before he heard the second hail of gunshots course over his head, whistling slightly, and drilling into a Bucks player behind him, arterial blood squirting well over a foot from the slumped body on a terrified pony. It gave a quick buck and bolted over to the other side of the playing field, before clearing the fence and coming to a halt in a neighbouring meadow. The man fell to the ground with a sickening thud, blood spreading across the carefully manicured grass and staining it crimson.

There was the squeal of tires on dirt road as a beaten-up Ford Futura struggled to vacate the scene. Its tires spun on the gravel as it disappeared further up the road, the mirror used to mask the license number glinting in the sun. One of the Bucks players, Mackenzie, pulled a handgun from his polo vest and emptied a clip into the back windshield of the car, the sound of shattering glass echoing about the strange tranquillity.

The car swerved across the road, finally veering into a ditch that ran along the side of the road. Its bonnet crumpled partially, the radiator hissing with steam and hot water.

Mackenzie pocketed his gun and turned to Elias, glancing at him meaningfully. He and Elias had a business relationship of sorts; him being the contract killer hired by the older man. He dropped his helmet to the ground and ran his hands through his thick, brown, chin-length hair and smirked slightly.

"You gonna find out who that is, Mister Tabbard?" he asked impertinently, crossing his arms and looking very smug astride his pedigree bay mare. His voice barely broke the stunned silence that had descended upon the polo match. The majority of the players had gathered about the body of the Bucks player.

"Me?" Elias snapped, annoyed at Mackenzie's cheek. "_You were the one who shot him."_

"Are you sure?" Mackenzie's smirk grew wider, producing dimples either side of his mouth. "Maybe you should see who shot our star player."

Heaving a resigned sigh, he spurred Bailey down the pathway that lead to the road. The car had ceased hissing and spitting like an agitated cat, no movement detectable in the drivers seat – or anywhere else, for that matter. Elias suspected that Mackenzie knew _exactly who the shooter was, and killed him in one of the most effective ways possible. Five rounds to the head and back, to be exact._

He dismounted, opened the car door and peered inside. And groaned. Mackenzie had certainly made a mess. Blood spattered the entire interior of the car; the impact of the bullets had forced blood and brain out of the entry and exit wounds. So, as one can imagine, the inside of the car was not a pretty sight.

On the carpeted floor lay a brand-new top-of-the-line leather suitcase, with ornate brass clasps. The letters stamped near the hinges suggested that the shooter had purchased the suitcase from D & R Hoffman's, a very prestigious string of shops that specialised in leather goods. Ignoring the mutilated body of the shooter, he hauled out the briefcase and placed it heavily on the boot, pushing away Bailey's inquisitive muzzle. Animals were notorious for ruining evidence, crime scenes and the like. 

He released the clasps on the suitcase and opened it up, suppressing a small gasp. Folders and folders of information on the dead polo player – one William Clayton, 22, a dim-witted henchman belonging to the Fowl Cartel – were filed away neatly in alphabetical order. Elias had had a run-in or two with Clayton, one of which resulted in a busted spleen for the older man. The thing that amazed him even more was the insignia on the letterhead the information was printed on. In an elegant hand, one snake had been drawn entwining a heavy book, with the words '_Vita ac __Mors' printed in gothic lettering. The letterhead was, like all things concerned with his employment, very familiar, seeing as though he wrote with the very same stationery more often than not. The instructions written were very simple: kill Clayton; the signature on the bottom of the paper belonged to Elias' own deputy. He frowned. He would have to have a word with her after he got out of the current mess._

He rifled through the files a little longer, and found an opened envelope adhered to a check for twenty thousand pounds. The check was blank, but a minute magnetic strip would reveal exactly who the proper recipient was, if the valuable piece of paper were to fall into the wrong person's hands. Elias placed it on top of the files and read the name on the envelope. He was hardly startled as the name registered in the back of his brain – the man in the car was a regular down at Headquarters.

Elias closed the suitcase with a snap and pulled up the unwilling head of Bailey, who had been happily grazing on the grassy verge. He crossed the road, leading the pony by the reins, and sidled up to Mackenzie.

"Called the police?" he inquired cautiously. More than half of the players had a criminal connection, so there was little chance of anyone wanting to call the police. Mackenzie shook his head and grinned.

"Bordeaux!" he yelled to one of his team mates, a sickly-looking man. "Ring the coppers!" Bordeaux hesitated slightly, a grimace on his pasty features. He nodded.

"Antoine Bordeaux is the cleanest guy on our team," remarked Matthews, "only one charge of Possession with Intent. Not bad, for a guy who's been passing cocaine since university, really." 

Elias forced a smile and tied Bailey to the post, before settling down to wait. No doubt the policemen would want an official statement, _and an identification of the two unfortunate bodies. Like all police business, it would be unnecessarily prolonged, not to mention, unfruitful. Little pieces of evidence, such as the shooter's briefcase, had a tendency to disappear._

***

It was a little after two o'clock in the afternoon when Caitlin crawled out of bed, miserable and aggravated. Her mouth tasted like stale whiskey, unsurprisingly, seeing as though she had spent the wee hours of the morning drinking it, attempting to solve the code on the back of the business card. Having not made any progress – most likely due to extreme intoxication – she had retreated to the sagging bed in the corner of her impressively large room, and fallen into a drunken sleep.

Her loft apartment, though scantily furnished, was particularly remarkable; she had bought it after completing a well-paid assignment; it was situated on the upmarket side of Ballsbridge, and had cost her almost fifty thousand pounds. Well-polished hardwood that should have been adorned with finely-woven rugs covered every floor, save for the bathroom and kitchen. The stark white walls were purely for the purpose of hanging expensive modern art, of which Caitlin had none, and the directed lighting was dimmed fashionably low, so if one was to walk to the bathroom late at night, they ran the risk of breaking a limb. Caitlin's décor – or lack thereof – reflected the down-on-her-luck aspect of her life; the only furniture in her possession was one circular dining table, a bed, two chairs and a sofa. She had to sell her TV for therapy, for Christ's sake! That was no way to live.

Seating herself at her table, Caitlin grumbled and scratched for the better half of five minutes, before opening her eyes fully and being confronted with the most unwelcome sight of the business card, code side up, taunting her. It was far too unsolved for her liking. Pushing it off the table, she stood unsteadily and made her way to the bar fridge, cursing the empty bottle of Jack Daniels in her wastepaper basket. She rummaged around the cold interior and found a piece of brie that was perhaps four months old. At least it wasn't the unidentified container of grey-green goo that sat at the back of the fridge. She sliced a piece off with a butter knife and ate it ravenously, rind and all, not even bothering to hold her breath. So the connoisseurs were right, cheese did taste better after it aged, even if it meant it grew white and fuzzy. Caitlin wasn't really a fan of cheese, but the bitter, salty tang of what probably was the mould appealed to her. She cut another piece, and returned to the table, drowsy once more.

She stared out the window momentarily, watching the cars move below at a sluggish pace. Considering the state of the brie, it was a wonder she didn't pass out immediately. However, the inevitable did eventually come.

It was the phone that startled her awake. It was very nearly dark, the sun receding behind clouds and dropping below the horizon. The shadows were long on the white walls, and she rubbed her head, rubbing off the print on her forehead that had transferred from the old newspapers onto her skin at some state in her unconsciousness. She rummaged around the piles of papers and found a cordless handset.

"Hello?" she asked, her syllables slurred. The line was bad, white noise echoing down the handset.

"You _were right about shooting being the only thing you were skilled at," drawled an amused, masculine voice. It was the Tabbard man, grinning so widely that she could hear it on the phone. _

"What?" Caitlin snapped; suddenly awake at the word _shooting._

"You didn't solve the code," Elias stated simply. "You were drunk, I bet." He continued before she could express her surprise, "You're slurring your syllables. Believe me; I do that a lot, too."

Caitlin rested her head on her left hand and blinked the scunge out of her eyes. "What did it actually say?"

Elias laughed. "Not much. It only told you to call a specific number at 5:50 using reverse dial, and to do it or die. But considering your state at the moment, I'll spare you right now. Tell me, have you decided?"

She mumbled something unintelligible, before starting over. "Yeah, I think. Do you supply the equipment?"

"Due to budget cuts we can only give you a Kevlar vest," Elias stated in a matter of fact voice. "Although I recommend you use a magnum. Fast and powerful."

"But -,"

"Yes?" he asked quickly, and then continued when Caitlin did not finish her protest. "Good. I expect to see you outside your apartment in one weeks' time. Perhaps now you understand the letters D-I-O-D?"

And with that he hung up. Caitlin groaned, rested her head on the table, and slipped into the unconsciousness that had been so abruptly interrupted.

***


	6. Chapter Six: Loan Shark Bravado

**Title:** Killer Instinct

**Author:** Skye Firebane

**Rating:** PG-13 for mild to moderate coarse language.

**Chapter Name: **Loan Shark Bravado

**Chapter Summary:** Caitlin turns to the only person she can to get 'stocked up', and Artemis seeks that very same person for information… Family feuds and frustration ensue.

**Comments:** This chapter contains mild to moderate coarse language. If you're not happy with that, click your back button right now. If you wish to flame me, please do so at hors_e@hotmail.com.

**Disclaimer:** Artemis Fowl is not, and will never be, my intellectual property. However, all characters not mentioned in the canon are mine. Events mentioned in this piece of fiction concerning actual buildings are fabricated.

**Thanks to:** The wonderful Blue Yeti who agreed to beta this chapter for me, and for all those fantastical reviewers who manage to inflate my ego to no end! animefanatic07, Artemis is in this chapter. He also features in the next chapter, I am almost certain. From then on, I don't know, but fret not! I haven't forgotten him.

***

**Chapter Six: Loan Shark Bravado**

A thin plume of cigarette smoke rose into the night, illuminated by the streetlamp and dissipated by the rain that bore down upon the docks of Dublin. A rangy figure stood beneath the light, Gore-Tex coat pulled up around his neck, one leather-gloved hand thrust deep into one of the many polar-fleece pockets. The other hand was raised above his mouth in an attempt to keep the embers in his cigarette alive. His face was contorted into a nasty frown, and his foot tapped impatiently on the concrete pathway. 

It was a scene that could have come from any 1950's whodunit movie, even though it lacked the slick jazz music and atmospheric greyscale colour scheme. Of course, this was no movie, and this unsavoury character was – quite unfortunately – not an actor.

Sascha Hill had a criminal record that, if printed out, was probably taller than him. And he was six foot three at his full height; in his full thirty-four years, he had collected an extensive range of charges – from Indecent Exposure at a Public Venue, to Grand Theft Auto, to Murder itself. Considering his family history, it would not really come as a surprise; Caitlin Woodgrove, ex-second-rate assassin, was Sascha Hill's favourite cousin.

Then again, Sascha did only have one cousin.

The truth was that Sascha was a far more accomplished criminal than Caitlin, who resented him because of it. Sascha played big time, and had no tolerance for low quality; he was a part-time gun-runner, part-time smuggler, part-time hit man and full-time bad guy. He owned three warehouses on Dock Fourteen, the only dock where there was a distinct lack of seagulls. There were, however, a lot of empty rounds.

If you wanted a head start in the UK Underground, you made like Hell to Sascha – _Mister Hill_ – and became 'friends' with him. He was the rolodex of crime contacts, and besides, he offered a great interest rate for loans above three thousand pounds.

And whilst he turned down so many late-night meetings with people he trusted more, he was out at Warehouse Three, Dock Fourteen, waiting in the rain for Caitlin. After all, she was family, and blood was certainly thicker than water when it came to his cousin – it didn't really pay to be on the bad side of an insane person.

The ember was close to burning his lips when he heard approaching steps. They were cautious and deliberate, splashing in shallow puddles as their owner worked a way through the less slippery parts. Sascha drew his O'Dwyer VLE out of his shoulder holster and switched the safety off. He pressed his thumb on the adjustment switch and turned down the rounds-per-minute speed to something designed to incapacitate, not kill.

The footsteps drew closer and before long a bedraggled figure came into view, her face a portrait of misery and abhorrence. Sascha half-smirked at her discomfort.

"I hate you," Caitlin snapped at him as she drew into the light, wringing the water out of her jumper sleeves. "You told me fucking Dock Four, I wait there for ten minutes, and then some lout comes out and tells me that _Mister_ Hill is at Dock Fourteen now."

Sascha feigned an air of innocence and surprise. "I don't understand," he stammered, exaggerating his naive tone of voice. "I distinctly told you Dock _Fourteen_. It must have been the reception."

Caitlin scowled for a second, and kicked him hard in the shin. Sascha stepped backwards, and looked at her with an expression of spiteful disbelief.

"I don't believe it. You're still the twelve year old who _tried_ to bash the shit out of me," he spoke with a tone of superiority that had developed over the years of dealing with underlings.

"You _stuffed _my _head_ down the toilet, you bastard!" snarled Caitlin, hands firmly placed on her hips, "You thought you were so good, being a full four years, seven months and eight-,"

"-Nine," interrupted Sascha.

"- Nine days, older than me!" Caitlin half spat. Her cousin flicked the butt of his cigarette on the ground at her feet, and smiled slightly.

"Please, before you come inside, stop being a spoilt little girl. I have an O'Dwyer in my hand, a Beretta at my hip and a Colt at my ankle. Don't mess with me." He stared into her eyes for several seconds, before turning smartly on his heel. With a flourish, he withdrew a ring of keys. The locks on the warehouse door were over ten years old, instead of the smart electronic locks on many of the other warehouse doors. It took him several minutes to unlock them all, and as he slid the last bolt out of the way, Caitlin sighed exasperatedly.

"You're an idiot, you know. You're stuck in the nineties still. The only piece of technology you own is –,"

"I own several pieces of technology. I just don't believe in using electronic locks on my warehouses. It doesn't take a genius – or a millionaire – to get hold of an EMP generator, and _bang! The locks are gone. I don't like my chances with the police. They find what's in Warehouse Two apart from dried pilchards; I'd be behind bars like that. It's people like __you that make gun smuggling so hard. Don't look at me like that," he glanced sideways at Caitlin, who was fighting the urge to hit him, hard, "They've upped the security like anything. All these psychos out to get the general public."_

He came to a stop next to a large crate of what smelt like mackerel. Caitlin wrinkled her nose in disapproval and shivered slightly. Her jumper was beginning to smell like a saturated member of the canine family, and her legs felt like they had been shrink-wrapped in her jeans. Sascha took a key card from inside his coat, and slid it through a small gap between the planks of the crate. There was an electronic beep, and what used to be a side of the crate swung open to bathe the warehouse in a warm light.

He turned to smirk at her. "Yeah, Caitlin. I'm a technophobe."

Even Caitlin had to suspend her utter hatred of her cousin for a moment. One long corridor, barricaded by several glass airlocks, reached out to a large, brightly lit room at the very end, furnished in a stylish minimalist fashion. That he hadn't been caught running this… institute was what really amazed her.

Sascha hung up his coat on a nearby rack that was already crowded with jackets. Underneath it he was dressed in a suit that could barely be classed as one. Quite possibly once crisp and smart, it looked as if it had been slept in. For several months. Still, he looked a lot more ready to do business than Caitlin did. At least he had a tie, even if it was half undone.

Making their way down to the common room at the end was a slightly tedious progress. Sascha swiped the card every three meters or so, taking a relaxed approach just to annoy Caitlin. At the last airlock stood two surly bodyguards who could be easily mistaken as boulders, given life. Sascha waved them off casually, and behind their mirrored sunglasses Caitlin felt their stares. She shot them a venomous glare as the door clicked shut behind her. Her cousin turned on his heel, not even bothering to hide his grimace.

"Now, what do you want, so I can have the pleasure of finishing this business and throwing you out. Actually, really just the pleasure of throwing you out."

Caitlin frowned at him. "I need a gun. And a suit."

"A suit? Into the big leagues, are we, Caitlin? Planning to have dinner with the Prime Minister and then kill him?"

"Ha, ha," she replied bleakly, catching the satisfied smirk of her cousin. She glared at him. "It's important. I have a job."

"I'm so proud of you," was the sarcastic reply.

"Shut up. You heard of Elias Tabbard?" She cocked her head in question, and relished in watching her cousin pale slightly. It wasn't often that she saw Sascha Hill scared, but that could probably be explained away by the fact that she hadn't see him for more than five years, she thought smugly.

"Heard of, Caitlin? You _are an idiot, aren't you?" He rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt, to reveal a red, raw patch crisscrossed with slash marks. Caitlin recoiled instinctively; the scar wrapped around the majority of his upper arm, up to his shoulder – and most likely, across his back. "I told Elias Tabbard seven years ago, that if he didn't pay back his ten thousand pound loan, I'd make his life hell. Well, he pistol-whipped me quick smart, didn't he? Tied me to the back of his Merc and dragged me down some country road, and just so he could see how much I could bleed, he cut me some more afterwards. Smarmy bastard."_

"I don't blame him," Caitlin replied, grinning haughtily. Sascha looked pointedly at the scar on her face and cleared his throat.

"You just watch out for the posh bastards, Caitlin. Tabbard is one."

"Posh bastards?"

"Money, and far too much sense. Too damn smart for their own good."

"You're just jealous."

"Caitlin," Sascha shook his head in the condescending way adults do to children, "I run a modest business empire. Lucrative, yes, but I can't afford to be as… exuberant with money as posh bastards are." He chose his words carefully.

"Not as much money in the arse-kissing business as you thought, huh?"

Sascha scrutinised Caitlin with a cool gaze. "I'm beginning to wonder why I actually let you in here. You obviously harbour grudges like the immature brat you are."

"And _you_ obviously don't listen, like the testosterone-driven ape you are. I told you, I need a suit and a gun, and the suit has to be nice and _neat, but I don't think you know what that is, either," Caitlin snapped, folding her arms in front of her chest. It was a gesture to prevent her from gouging his eyes out._

He sighed. "I can get you a suit. Tailor made, best materials I can find. I'll put someone on it when I can be bothered. As for the gun, there is always the matter of payment…" he trailed off, a crooked smile taking place of the scowl. "Of course, you'll be wanting a Magnum, what with your fussy ways and all. Then there's the importation cost to take into account, plus labour… I could give you a round figure, but I doubt you have it."

Caitlin had no choice but to agree with that.

"So, I'll settle for a payment _after the fact."_

It seemed fair enough. Sascha extended his hand and Caitlin shook it brusquely.

"A momentous occasion," announced Sascha. "Now get out, before I do something in bad taste that'll ruin the carpet."

Caitlin stood and wrung out some water from her jumper. With as much dignity she could muster, she strode out into the corridor, gave a solemn nod to the two bodyguards, and made her way out.

With a sigh, Sascha lit up another cigarette and inhaled nervously. He rested his elbows on his legs, tapping the ash into the silver tray on the coffee table in front of him. Unlike his cousin, he felt remorse – and currently, he was feeling _quite remorseful about the entire affair._

"The chemicals in the cigarette smoke attach themselves to your alveoli and gradually eat away at the tissue of your lungs." A soft, measured voice emanated from a dimly-lit corridor opposite the main hallway.

"Oh, fuck. Not you," Sascha exclaimed, leaning back on the leather upholstery, trying to block out the shadowy figure in his office doorway that belonged to the one and only Artemis Fowl the Second.

"Now, Sascha, that's not appropriate language to use when greeting an old friend," Artemis said, mock hurt laced in his voice. He was dressed twice as impeccably as Sascha, his tailor-made suit sleek and starched. "Besides, for once I'm not here to exploit you. As far as I'm concerned, you hold the best hand here."

"Yeah?" Sascha lifted an eyebrow, puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette. It was unlike Fowl to be so open… about anything. Manipulation was the young man's forte. He gestured for Artemis to take a seat, and crushed his cigarette into the ashtray. Upon seeing Butler, he sighed loudly. "Great. Your shadow's here, too."

Artemis smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "I appreciate your witty observation, Hill. However, I am not here for power play or mind games."

Sascha snorted slightly. "Then you've come to join me for a spot of tea?" Artemis ignored his sarcasm; instead he pulled a manila folder out of a leather briefcase and dropped it casually on the table.

Cautious, Sascha opened the folder. Photographs – hundreds of them, mostly of rubble and ruined artefacts – were stacked and dated with yellow post-it notes. He leafed through a few of them and shrugged.

"Means nothing to me, Fowl."

"The purpose of these photographs isn't to _mean anything to you, Hill. They only __mean something to a select group of people… and Interpol." Artemis shuffled through, a blank expression on his face. Sascha watched in silence, curiosity outstripping fear for his life by far._

"As I'm sure your informants have told you, my family is – was – in possession of, among other things, a mansion in Tuscany," Artemis sighed, picking out a particular photo, a frown creasing his brow. He turned it over and passed it to Sascha, who exhaled rather noisily.

"And this," Artemis passed him a second photo, "is what is left of it."

Sascha scanned the photo. The property – once a grand, traditional Tuscan-style mansion, was reduced to charred rubble. A chimney reached out of the debris, stark against a white-grey sky. Fragments of coloured china and small, melted globules of metals speckled the wreckage, bright amongst the black ruins. He laughed, a sharp bark full of cynicism. Artemis looked up, surprised by the other man's reaction.

"Something you find funny?"

"What the hell was this, Fowl? Insurance fraud? You could have chosen a better location – say, maybe your own home!" Sascha chuckled, photo still grasped between his index finger and thumb.

Artemis glared dourly at Sascha, who stopped laughing instantaneously. "Hardly. The mansion in Tuscany was bombed. Quite expertly. The bumbling idiots we call Interpol know nothing, and I have hardly the time to go ferreting about in rubble."

"And you want _me to help you – of all people?"_

"It would be appreciated. However, if you are unwilling to perform this operation _pro bono_, then some sort of monetary compensation can be arranged."

"How much?"

"One thousand pounds for a piece of information. I want this man's name, and who he works for. That's it."

Sascha bit his lip, mulling over the offer. It was a decent deal, seeing as though he would be doing little work at all. "Sounds good to me."

Artemis smiled wryly. "I surmised as much."

"Right. Any evidence?" Sascha's eyes strayed to the folder sitting next to Artemis, full of carbon-copied reports and ten-page analyses. Artemis handed to him mutely. Sascha leafed through the papers, and snorted.

"This is evidence? All I read here is a bunch of bullcrap. It's all so-called experts spouting jargon about one thing: inconclusive," he said, shaking his head. He flicked through the photos, until one caught his eye – a snapshot of the fragmented, melted propane tank uncovered from beneath a pile of bricks; specifically a large, twisted metal chunk with unidentified plastic pieces adhered to its surface. The investigators hadn't known what they were, but Sascha did. Any person experienced in bomb construction knew what they were. And Sascha's father had been in the IRA.   

"Here," he said smugly, tapping at the photo. "It's hard to tell unless you know what they look like, but these are wires; part of the bomb. And here, melted duct tape. This was your bomb."

"And my bomber?"

"There's a few bombers who use this M.O – spread the fire by gas pipes. The bloke who just as well as invented it is in jail for a car-bombing. This one's an experienced job, but not too experienced. Most of the others are amateurs, but there's a firebug I know in my network. Freelances, as far as I know," Sascha hesitated, glancing at Artemis. "Daniel Armada lives in Northern Ireland but could be in bloody Kazakhstan right now."

"Armada – the suspect for the American Embassy bombing in London?"

"The one and only," Sascha said. He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Now – a thousand pounds?"

Artemis frowned at him. "You'll receive nothing until I know what you've said is true."

The other man shook his head. "I'll let Armada know you're after him if I don't get that money. And then he'll be gone, and you'll be sorry."

"Very well," Artemis sighed exasperatedly. "Butler, give him the thousand pounds."

Butler stepped forward from the shadows, a hulking silhouette that probably would have scared the bejeezus out of Sascha had he not had two men of the same size ready to attack at the drop of a hat. He withdrew a wad of fifty-pound notes and dropped it on the table.

"I shall see myself out," Artemis said, standing and brushing nonexistent dust from his suit, beckoning to Butler with a nod. The airlocks opened as the pair activated the motion sensors, and they made their way out into the night, where the rain was far from ceasing.

"Loan sharks," Artemis shook his head once they were well out of earshot. "They're all the same." 

***

Hopefully, it will not take 5 months to write the next chapter.


End file.
